


Lucky Charms

by Sinsation



Category: The Following
Genre: Hardston - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 07:58:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsation/pseuds/Sinsation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The corner of Ryan's mouth rose into a lopsided smile.</p>
<p>He ran his hand through Mike's hair; the soft golden strands comforting his listless mind.</p>
<p>"The sky is so clear today." The young agent remarked, leaning into Ryan's touch. His head rested lightly on his lap, dull blue eyes staring up at the cloudless infinity above.</p>
<p>Ryan chuckled. "It sure is."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Charms

The corner of Ryan's mouth rose into a lopsided smile.  
  
He ran his hand through Mike's hair; the soft golden strands comforting his listless mind.  
  
"The sky is so clear today." The young agent remarked, leaning into Ryan's touch. His head rested lightly on his lap, dull blue eyes staring up at the cloudless infinity above.  
  
Ryan chuckled. "It sure is."  
  
Mike eased out a sigh as his eyelids drooped shut.  
  
"Hey, buddy. Come on. Stay awake and watch the sun set." Something in Ryan's voice made Mike snap back into wakefulness.  
  
Grinning, the agent choked out a laugh. "Don't look so stressed, Ryan."  
  
 _He doesn't know the truth.  
  
_ Ryan chewed on his lip in contemplation.  
  
The harsh rays of the sun heated the thick concrete floor of the fishing docks; the scorching beams ran down the black cloth of Ryan’s suit jacket.  
  
"Ryan?"  
   
"Yeah?"  
  
Mike sighed. "I'm sorry."  
  
It was Ryan’s turn to attempt a half-assed laugh. "Those aren't exactly the two words that I was hoping to hear."  
  
Mike's lips curled into a small grin. "What two words _were_ you hoping to hear?"  
  
"It's not important." Ryan didn't have it in him to press the issue. "Let's talk about you."  
  
"There isn't much left to say." Shifting into a more comfortable position, the young agent reached up, cupping Ryan's cheek with a swollen hand.  
  
"There's always something left." He attempted to keep Mike talking, to keep him awake for as long as possible before-  
  
"I don't want it to end like this." Mike's bright blue eyes were faded by sorrow, washed out by salty tears that threatened to fall.  
  
Ryan swallowed. "Don't say it. Don't you dare."  
  
Mike was whimpering now.  
  
The steel hunting knife lodged itself deeper into his abdomen. The icy, stinging rake of pain bled into a distorted tangle of numbness that spread across his waistline and down his legs.  
  
"I'm not delusional. At this stage, I'm a just dead man talking." Mike wanted Ryan to be ready for the inevitable.  
  
Sticky crimson blood strained the hot concrete. It pooled around them, soaking into Ryan's jeans and melting under his nails.  
  
Ryan choked back a wail, or scream, or whatever threatened to jump out of his lungs and start tracking down the bastard that dared to take the life of his best friend.    
  
He wanted to tie down each of Joe's followers and gut them; burying himself in the poisoned viscera of those brainwashed animals…  
  
Mike struggled to breathe. His lungs were collapsing under their own weight.  
  
"I haven't been to church in a while." Closing his eyes, Mike thought for a moment. "I guess I sort of lost my faith along the way."  
  
"It's a side effect of the job." Ryan continued massaging his hand through Mike's hair.  
  
"Can I confess something to you?" His voice was slipping. He felt his arms become cold and the world around him echo.  
  
"I'm the farthest thing from a priest."  
  
"Don't undermine yourself." Tears streaked down Mike's face as the truth hit him.  
  
It was only a matter of minutes before his brain shut down and the only thing holding his spirit back from the calming abyss of death, would be a fiery vengeance to see Joe's eviscerated body suspended on a meat hook.  
  
"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned." He felt as though his tongue was covered in strips of sandpaper. "It's been too damn long since my last confession. Here are my sins."  
  
Ryan never wanted a bottle of alcohol more in his life. Or, after Mike passed, maybe something a bit stronger…  
  
 _A shot of vodka with a hot lead chaser._  
  
"I've done some bad things. I've killed, and stole, and disrespected my parents. I coveted my neighbor's spouse a few times and am on a first name basis with each earthly demon I can think of." Oh, those sleepless nights with Mrs. Anderson were some of the finest times of his young life.  
  
"I don't know what I was expecting." Ryan was sure that there were some things Mike would take with him to the grave.  
  
"There's only one thing I really regret." Mike coughed. A clear fluid tinged with blood passed his lips. He sucked it back, struggling to breathe in. "I fell for someone who could never love me back."  
  
Was it Debra? Or maybe…maybe it was Claire.  
  
Ryan's heart beat faster. "You don't have to tell me who it is."  
  
"I want to." Mike swallowed. He could taste the bitter copper coating on his gums. "It's my fault, and now the person I love most in this world has to sit here and watch me die."  
  
A sharp spike of static jolted up Ryan's spine. "You're not fucking serious." The words left his mouth faster than he could think.  
  
"Shhh. Priests don't swear." He was feeling nauseous. "Ryan, I-…I love you. Just pretend for a moment that you love me back and I can rest. I'm so sleepy. I want to rest."  
  
The sky was darkening. Were clouds rolling in, or was his vision starting to blur?  
  
"I'm really tired." His head nodded off to one side. Ryan held it steady.  
  
Sirens sounded far off in the distance. Ryan judged that they would be there in several minutes.  
  
 _Too little. Too late._  
  
"It's okay. You'll be okay." Empty promises did nothing to sooth either of the men.  
  
 _My only reason for living is dying right in front of me and it's my fault._  
  
Gathering what strength remained, Mike stared up at his idol. "Lie to me."

"I can't." Ryan bit back tears. "I love you, Mike. I love you. Don't die like this. It can't end this way."  
  
"Every story has an ending. This might be mine." Mike could hear the sound of angels singing; praising God, beckoning him to go.  
  
He could see Sarah Fuller, and Debra, and recent deceased Agent Donovan urging him to slip away; to join them, to start on a new adventure past the horror and beyond the senseless violence of the Earth.  
  
"Stay with me, Mike, please. Please, I _need_ you." Patting Mike's shoulder, Ryan kept trying to coax him back into consciousness.  
  
He didn't know he was crying until he saw his own tears mix with the water drying on Mike's face.  
  
The EMS sirens were getting closer. They were almost there.  
  
"Stay with me, buddy." He whispered. "Stay with me. Dear God, _please_."  
  
Ryan lapsed from begging to prayer, wailing up at the blank sky.  
  
 _Don't let it be him. Anyone but him.  
  
_ An emergency response vehicle finally ground to a halt behind them. A rush of paramedics stormed out, wearing bright orange vests and carrying black duffle bags.  
  
"Mike?"  
  
No answer.  
  
"Mike!"  
  
A slim, blonde female medic held Ryan back as three men transferred his limp body onto a stretcher.  
  
"Mike!" He screamed out, sweat dripping down his forehead and muscles contracting in a fit of violence and sorrow.  
  
 _God took back one of his angels._  
  
"He's alive." One of the medics noted in an infuriatingly calm manner. "Let's get em' in the bus."  
  
They loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance.  
  
Ryan ran over to Mike's side, hauling himself into the vehicle. His heart beat faster, thumping against his organs, ready to stop and join Mike in the valley between the living and the dead.  
  
The ambulance drove off, bounding down the docks. The siren screamed.  
  
 _It should have been me.  
  
_ The medics were working frantically, applying dressings around the knife and pumping oxygen into his failing lungs. They were shouting medical jargon at each other, pushing past one another to reach items enclosed in unlabeled metal compartments.  
  
Agent Weston's bloodied badge glistened gold under a sheer layer of red. His cheeks were pale, and his eyes half closed; limp body and blue lips. A short bald medic cut through Mike's vest and shirt with a pair of what seemed to be large garden shears.  
  
Expertly inserting an IV tube into the crook of Mike's left elbow, the blonde medic looked over at Ryan with an expression of condolence.  
  
 _He isn't dead yet, bitch._  
  
His misanthropy rose to a new level.  
  
Ryan entwined his fingers with Mike's. His hand was ice cold.

Tuning in and out of the paramedic's loud rants, he noticed a monitor on the far wall abruptly start and stop a series of loud beeps.  
  
"His pulse is failing." Calmly, one of the medics pulled out a pair of metal paddles from a cart. "Everyone clear."  
  
Blondie pulled Ryan back. He let go of his hand.  
  
Removing any leftover strips of clothing, the medic rubbed the paddles together. "Clear."  
  
He pressed the paddles against Mike's chest, and his body jolted.  
  
The monitor on the wall blinked to life for a brief moment.  
  
"Clear!" Another jolt.  
  
The wavy red line on the monitor was beginning to flatten.  
  
" _Clear!_ " A third jolt.  
  
The line lay perfectly still.  
  
"Shit." The medic whispered under his breath. "Clear!"  
  
The line jumped on the screen.  
  
Everyone in the cramped cabin stared at the monitor, unconsciously holding their breaths.  
  
One count. Two counts. Three.  
  
Ten seconds passed, and the paddles were pressed once again.  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Mike. Mike, no. No." Ryan slumped himself over the young agent's body.  
  
The ambulance stopped moving and the doors opened.  
  
Ryan followed closely by Mike's side as they wheeled the stretcher out.

They rushed him through a set of automatic doors and directly down a long hallway. The sickly sterile smell of the hospital ingrained itself into Ryan's memory.  
  
They approached a doorway with the word THEATER in metallic letters nailed above it.  
  
Two nurses materialized beside him, holding him back.  
  
"Detective Hardy?" A slim, Asian doctor walked up to Ryan. Her long black hair was pulled back into a tight French braid. "My name is Doctor Lang. Mike listed you as his power of attorney. His brothers are on their way."  
  
Mike was going to die, and there wasn't a chance in hell that-  
  
"It stated on his driver's license that in the case of his death, he has legally agreed to donate any viable organs."  
  
Ryan broke free of the nurse's strong grip. He slammed his fist into the nearest wall, punching a perfectly round hole through the chalky material. "His body isn't even cold yet and you want to harvest him like a fucking farm animal!"  
  
 _He wanted to save people, even after death._  
  
Ryan collapsed into a sobbing heap on the floor.  
  
The doctor approached him. "This one isn't on you, Detective Hardy. You had no way of knowing."  
  
"Fuck off." He choked out, "just fuck off."  
  
It was another hour before Ryan could muster the courage to stand on his feet once more.  
  
His whole body shook; quivering with a toxic mix of thoughts that even the strongest of alcohols couldn't placate.  
  
He heard footsteps approach from around the corner. "Detective Hardy?"  
  
Ryan stared at the doctor.  
  
Dr. Lang gave him a faint, reassuring smile. "Mike's out of surgery. He's stable, and we have high hopes that he'll make it through the night."  
  
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.  
  
"Let me see him." He demanded.  
  
"Right this way."  
  
He followed the doctor down a hallway, into the post-op unit. A putrid smell of bodily essence tainted with antiseptic made its way down his throat. The stark white tiles of the floor reminded him of an asylum ward.  
  
"Right here." They stopped in front of a plain metal door bearing the name 'Michael Emerson Weston' in bolded font on a bright orange card. "I'll wait here."  
  
Ryan turned the knob and entered the room.  
  
The lights were off. Sunlight streamed in through the shaded windowpanes and cast stripes across the tiled floor.

It was a private room. Spacious, with two chairs and a flat screen TV attached to the ceiling and a radio on the side table. It was obvious that the room was built for the comfort of a patient who was in it for the long haul.  
  
"Ry. Ryan." Mike's voice was weak. Ryan rocketed to his side, pulling a chair close to the edge of the bed and wrapping his hand around Mike's bandaged one.  
  
His whole body felt puffy. He breathed a steady supply of purified air through a set of plastic prongs up his nose, and the drainage tube under the thick bandage entwined across his torso did nothing to help his comfort level. His right leg was wrapped in a plaster cast with metal components poking awkwardly out of it. Two surgical steel rods held his the bones of his upper left leg together. An IV tube attached to a bag supplied him with much needed hydration, dripping the mixture steadily down a tube into his left arm.  
  
"I guess I'm still alive." With a raspy voice and half lidded eyes, Mike turned his head slightly to face Ryan.  
  
Ryan heaved a sigh of relief. "You made it."

"About what I said back there…I don't know what I was thinking." Avoiding Ryan's eyes, Mike looked away. Those painkillers were too damn good, and he was convinced that he'd be an addict by the time he was discharged.

"You meant what you said." Ryan rubbed his thumb along Mike's knuckles. "I love you, Mike. It took nearly loosing you twice for me to admit it."  
  
"You're just saying that." The monitor on the wall behind them beeped. His heart rate increased.  
"You're straight."  
  
"With exceptions."  
  
"Oh."  
  
A mellow silence passed between them  
  
"What about you and Claire?" Mike asked, squeezing Ryan's hand. "You still love her."  
  
"I always will. Not like I used to, but she'll always be a part of my life." He was honest to himself. There was no point in lying anymore.  
  
"I'm so tired of everything." There was something in his tone that Ryan couldn't place. "Can you…stay here with me for a while?"  
  
"I'm not going anywhere, buddy." He reached forward, placing a tentative touch on Mike's cheek. "I'll stay for as long as it takes."  
  
"You promise?"  
  
"I promise."  
  
It was bittersweet.  
  
"Can I have a goodnight kiss?" Mike was hopeful. It would be a long, hard recovery ahead of him, with a full year off of the job and constant physical therapy.

"Only if you promise to wake up." Ryan knew that it would be okay. It had to be.  
  
God wouldn't be so cruel…would he?  
  
Mike sighed, a smile playing at his lips. "Of course, Ryan. Anything for you."  
  
Without missing a beat, Ryan leaned towards Mike and placed a conservative kiss on his temple.  
  
"I just might be the luckiest guy in the universe." The agent mused.  
  
"What makes you say that?" _You were two steps away from death's door._  
  
Mike took in a shallow breath. He felt his spine crack and bones grind in his chest. "I can still feel my legs. I probably have at least four broken ribs, and will probably have post-traumatic stress for the rest of my life." He observed every line on Ryan's face. His washed out blue eyes and seemingly perpetual frown were caused by the stress of the job and years spent in a blissful alcohol daze. "I was going to die. Death was coming. It was in my skin."  
  
Ryan knew the feeling too well.  
  
"I was going to go. Then I heard you." His grin was wide, "I fuckin' heard you. Your voice boomed like a loudspeaker in my head and I couldn't leave. I had to stay."  
  
As if he were going to speak, Ryan lowered his jaw. Words escaped him, and a coherent sentence wouldn't allow itself to form in his mind.  
  
"That's why I'm lucky. Damn, I should have been dead five times over by now." Mike closed his eyes, reclining into the stack of pillows supporting his back.  
  
"Call it good karma."  
  
"If only there was such a thing..." The drugs took hold of the agent. His head nodded off to the side, his body relaxing and falling into a welcomed, impermanent sleep.  
  
Ryan watched Mike as he slept. Bruised and broken, he was an FBI agent who was pushed well past his breaking point but never cracked under the crushing force of responsibility.  
  
Beyond all reason, Mike and Ryan escaped harm's way time after time. It happened too often to be a set of miraculous coincidences. Ryan mulled over every possible outcome to the disastrous situations he was placed in with the agent. He couldn't fathom an explanation for their survival; nor could he think of a religious or spiritual excuse.  
  
 _It's not an act of God._ Ryan leaned forward, resting an elbow on the bedrail.  
  
 _It's just good luck._  
  
It wasn't lucky that Joe managed to recruit so many followers, and it was definitely _not_ lucky that so many innocent lives were stolen away too soon.  
  
Strangely, Ryan let his contempt take a backseat to the reassuring warmth growing inside the left half of his chest.

For a single moment suspended in time, Ryan Hardy felt _good._ It was not the kind of 'good' gained from a meaningless one-night stand, nor was it the kind of joy one experienced from winning the lottery or partaking in wine and spirits.  
  
It was the kind of _good_ that came from loving someone who loved you back. The kind of _good_ that came from a feeling of relief; as if he just took his first breath of air after having spent the last decade of his life drowning.    
  
Ryan was not a man who believed in superstitions, yet he found himself believing in more than he ever thought he was capable of.  
  
Mike was his rabbit's foot. He was his four-leaf clover, his shining shamrock and golden horseshoe.  
  
His side-kick and superhero.  
  
 _I'm such an idiot,_ Ryan mused, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.  
  
As the sun stood tall on the horizon and Ryan counted the sprinkles of dust suspended in the air, he decided on one singular fact:  
  
 _Mike is one hell of a lucky charm._


End file.
